


Temper, Temper

by orphan_account



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hand Jobs, John and Rook are both kind of messed up but that's nothing new under the sun, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Child Abuse, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:13:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23142985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Temper:(n). a person's state of mind seen in terms of their being angry or calm.(v). act as a neutralizing or counterbalancing force to (something).And then that spark of rage reemerged with a flash. The dark part of Rook, the part he was becoming frighteningly familiar with in recent days, was itching to end this. Bend John over the table, fuck him senseless, and blow his brains out all over his nice Persian carpets. The violence sang in his blood, burning through his body. It would be so easy to just give in and snap his neck then and there.Wrath. Wrath. Wrath.But he refused to keep proving John right.
Relationships: Deputy | Judge/John Seed, Male Deputy | Judge/John Seed
Comments: 2
Kudos: 95





	Temper, Temper

**Author's Note:**

> Been a few years since I've done the whole fanfiction thing, but I'm looking forward to picking it up as a hobby again. I'm not a smut writer and it shows, but I hope y'all enjoy regardless.

To say that Deputy Gideon Rook was having a bad week would have been an understatement. 

Within the past seven days he had been hunted, shot, tortured, released, threatened and hunted again. Whatever Jacob had done to him in that chair, it had left him feeling antsy and with the intense desire to destroy something. He wanted to _kill._ Wanted to make something hurt. Make it bleed.

He used to think that he did a good job at controlling his anger. Therapy had done him wonders in early twenties. He had a lot of pent up aggression as a kid, and it took him a long time to find a productive way to channel it. Football in high school and college had worked, and he had taken up boxing after graduating. It was humbling to get his ass handed to him by Hudson every other day. She packed a mean right hook. 

But ever since “The Reaping” began his blood pressure had been spiking, and all of that aggression he had as a child seemed to be returning tenfold. He’d killed more people since September started than he ever thought he’d have to kill when he joined the Hope County Sheriff’s Department. Which was to say that he had to kill _at_ _all._ A few skirmishes trying to subdue belligerent drunks, sure, he had expected that. But blowing someone’s brains out with a shotgun? Befriending a mountain lion and watching her rip a man’s throat and innards out? He never thought he’d be doing anything like that when he shook Earl Whitehorse’s hand and accepted the job. 

It should have bothered him more than it did. He should be disgusted with himself. These were human lives he was taking, yet he couldn’t bring himself to care. He couldn’t tell if this was an affect of whatever Jacob did to him in that red room, or if he was just slowly losing his humanity. Either way, John was right about him, the bastard. Part of him reveled in the gratuitous violence. _Wrath_ was his sin.

He tried not to think about it. It only made him angrier.

Which brought him to three days ago, when he took a rocket launcher to John’s eyesore of a knockoff Hollywood sign. Maybe this was a targeted attack. Maybe he was looking for a fight. Maybe he was a masochist, but he just wanted to get under John’s skin and get a reaction. 

It was childish. He was pulling at John’s pigtails, just to see what he’d do, but really, John was the one who started it. If he weren’t so easily riled up, then Rook wouldn’t feel the desire to do this in the first place.

He was… disappointed. Empty threats and the Chosen hunting him. How boring. How typical. He wanted something more personal. 

God, there was something wrong with him. 

“What did you really think would happen, dumbass?” he mumbled to himself as he blindly stumbled through another sewer tunnel. According to his wristwatch, his flashlight had started dimming yesterday evening, making him ration its battery life. He only clicked it on when he felt a draft or thought he came across an intersection of pipe. It was an impulse decision, hopping down a sewer grate near the Lamb of God church, but he managed to lose his hunting party and their dogs. He also made the mistake of trying to navigate the system without any sort of compass or map. 

In his incredibly finite wisdom, Rook had managed to find relative safety from the cult. He also made himself so. _Fucking. Lost._

A sharp hiss escaped through his teeth as he pulled himself through a partially collapsed tunnel. Everything hurt. His arms, his legs, his eyes, his head, every single muscle throbbed with overexertion and exhaustion. 

It was funny. He thought that the pain in his leg from one of Jacob’s bliss arrows would have been the worst part about all this. A constant dull aching that made walking difficult at best, and a pulsing open wound that led cult hunting dogs right to him at worst. But it turned out, that he could deal with. That wasn’t what was driving him crazy. 

It was the tattoo. The goddamn tattoo. John’s little parting gift from the last time they saw each other. _“Wrath”_ carved across his chest for all the world to see. The surrounding skin was red and raw, and it itched like a motherfucker. It had to be infected. If it wasn’t the dirt and grime from the Whitetails, then whatever waste — human or otherwise — that was down here would do it. He couldn’t smell anything anymore, but he knew that he _reeked_. 

“Wherever I emerge, there better be water,” he groaned. A bath. A river. A goddamn bucket, he wasn’t picky. Soap would be an added bonus. Hot water would be _divine._

He trekked on for another quarter mile, or so, before he thought he heard music. Music other than the shit the Peggies played. Heavy guitar riffs, ear shattering drums, all of which was getting louder as he got closer. It was stationary; it was _loud,_ and thank God, it was the Holland Valley radio station. He doesn’t know how far he walked since he came down here, let alone how much ground he actually managed to cover. He had to turn back so many times when he reached dead ends. 

He clicked his light on and cried actual tears when he saw a ladder leading up to a manhole cover. With the last ounces of strength he had left, Rook climbed the ladder and heaved his weight upwards, trying to knock the grate loose. It scraped against his shoulders, tearing holes into what remained of his shirt. “Help!” he cried out, after the third attempt. Old wounds were opening up under the strain, and blood was beginning to trickle down his back. “Hey! It’s Rook! The Deputy! Help!”

It was optimistic of him to think that people might hear his shouting over the music, but he hoped that the rattling grate was enough to draw some attention. 

Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. It was muffled, and he couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he could hear shouting. A few moments later, the cover was being lifted and the one thing Rook saw before being blinded by sunlight was the barrel of a shotgun pointed at his face.

“Oh, shit! It’s actually him!” someone yelled. 

Rook was hoisted up, a number of hands wrapping around his biceps and pulling hard. Once he was on solid ground again, they quickly shuffled him into what he assumed was the Spread Eagle. His eyes hadn’t had enough time to adjust to the daylight, but the music was so loud he could feel each note vibrate his bones. He was dragged across the hardwood floor and into a backroom, presumably behind the bar. The people who helped carry him in quickly shuffled out, saying something about finding Mary May and Pastor Jerome, and leaving him by himself. 

He blinked, black dots swimming across his vision as it cleared. Yellow lights flickered above him, and he had to turn away. It was still too bright. He draped an arm over his eyes and groaned. Was there always so much light in the world? The thrumming sounds he could handle. It made it hard to hear himself think. Made it hard to make himself angry. But the light? Jesus, the light was agony. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and rubbed.

The door crashed open, and he ventured a glance towards who came in. It hurt less this time, and he was blessed with the sight of one of his favorite people. “Hey, Miss Fairgrave. Ain’t you a sight for sore eyes?” He couldn’t help but chuckle at his own joke. Isolation did strange things to his sense of humor.

Mary May wasn’t nearly as amused. She retched upon opening the door and skulked along the wall, keeping her distance and curling away from him. A hand came up to cover her mouth and nose. “Jesus, Rook. You gave us a heart attack, you know?” she said. “We thought you were dead! The fuck happened to you? God, you smell like shit.”

“I think John wasn’t happy I blew up his sign,” Rook said. His grin widened, literally shit-eating. “Sent a hunting party after me. Managed to escape into the sewers and… well…” He gestured widely, one hand knocking against the wall.

Mary May laughed and shook her head, incredulous. “You’re one crazy sonofabitch, you know that, right?” She made her way back to the door and cracked it open. “Josie, bring me a bucket of soap and water, a towel, and a first aid kit, would’ya?”

Distantly, Rook heard someone respond, “Yes, Mary May!”

A few moments later, a young woman rushed in with the requested supplies. Mary May took them from her with a small, “Thank you.” She approached Rook and kneeled down beside him, grimacing at the smell.

He sat up, peeled off the tattered remains of his shirt. Tacky and seeped in blood, some spots stuck to his skin. Once he was shirtless, Mary May got to work, poking and prodding at his various injuries. A hiss escaped between his teeth as she washed around the worst of his wounds, liberally applying disinfectant before taking a needle and thread to stitch his skin back together. 

Despite the sting, the gentle movements of Mary May’s hands as she washed the blood and grime from his skin was soothing. His muscles began to relax, unwinding three-days worth of tension, and his eyes drifted shut. He didn’t know how long he managed to doze before a pounding came at the door.

“Mary May! Mary May!” he heard Josie calling.

“What!?” Mary May shouted back.

“It’s John Seed!” 

Mary May made an irritated, growling sound in the back of her throat. “What about him?”

“He’s _here!”_ Josie said, her voice breaking in panic. “He’s askin’ for you!”

“Oh, For fuck’s sake, what does he want?”

“I dunno, but…” Josie trailed off and there was a loud _thud_ and the shattering of glasses beyond the door. “You should just get out here, quick!”

“Ugh, fine!” Mary May groaned, thrusting the dirty washcloth that had long since turned a grimy pink. She gave Rook a hard look, her mouth set in a firm line. “Don’t you move, y’hear? Don’t need you doing any more reckless shit.”

Rook just nodded. “Aye-aye, cap’n.” 

She frowned, brows furrowed and concerned, but ultimately she decided that dealing with John Seed was the more pressing issue. She stood up, squared her shoulders, and exited through the door. A shotgun was cocked not long after. He shuffled over towards the door, pressing his ear against it.

“You know you ain’t welcome here,” Mary May said. “What do you want?”

Rook’s radio crackled to life for the first time in three days, and it was bizarre, simultaneously hearing two distorted versions of John Seed’s voice. One tinny and sharp, emphasizing the hard sounds of John’s speech, the other low and muffled, blocked by wood and walls. 

“You and your little group are a resilient _disease_ plaguing the faithful. I’d compare you to rats, but even rats have their place.” Floorboards began to creak and Rook could hear the gentle clicking of John’s boots against the polished wood. “No, you’re more like mosquitoes,” he continued. “ _Glutting_ yourselves on violence and death until you burst, until you _become_ your own _undoing.”_

“Get to the goddamn point, John,” Mary May said flatly

“Impatient and arrogant,” John spat. “Fine. This is a courtesy warning for the Deputy. I don’t know what little hole you crawled in to hide, but _I_ am in Falls End paying your little friends a visit. Now, whether they live or die, is entirely up to you. I am giving you one hour to surrender and make your presence known. If you come forward, I’ll leave this podunk town alone, but if you do not, then, much like Sodom and Gomorrah, Falls End and all those who remain will cease to exist.”

There’s a shuffling sound and a chorus of firearm safeties are clicked off.

“And why shouldn’t I just shoot you now? Way I see it, a bullet in your head would solve a lot of our problems real fast.”

John chuckled darkly. “Then whatever happens to you is out of my hands, but know that the swift end I am promising would come much faster and be significantly less merciful.”

“Ain’t nothing merciful ‘bout what you Peggies are doin’,” Mary May snarled.

“There are many routes through which one can reach salvation, Miss Fairgrave. Mercy is granted to those who are worthy of it.”

Rook had heard enough. Leaving Mary May and John in the same room together was a disaster waiting to happen, one that would only end in an array of bullets. He groaned, pushed himself onto his feet and pulled on a fresh shirt that Josie must have brought in when he was snoozing. Each step was heavy and labored. He had to keep a hand on the wall for support. He pushed through the door and into the main room of the bar. Mary May was to his side, standing behind the counter with her shotgun pointed at John, who was roaming the floor. A small army of Peggies flanked him, pointing their guns at her. “That’s an awfully self-righteous way of saying you kill whoever tells you ‘no,’ John.”

The look on John’s face was priceless. Fury at being interrupted, shock at seeing Rook standing before him turning into delight, and then twisting unpleasantly when the smell of blood and sewage hit him. A choked gag escaped his throat, and he coughed, fighting to gain back his briefly lost power over the situation. “Ah, I thought I smelled the stench of sin. Hello Deputy. It’s been a while. Deputy Hudson and I have missed you.” 

Rook must have looked distressed, because John flashed him a grin that didn’t quite meet those cold blue eyes. Power restored, teeth sunken into the soft fleshy bits of Rook’s emotions and attachments to his friend. “Oh, come now, don’t give me that face,” he continued. “She’s alive. For now. Though, if you don’t come with me, I’m afraid her condition might… _worsen._ ”

Rook had already made his decision when he walked out that door, knew that John wouldn’t make empty threats. Not this time. Not with the amount of territory he’d lost a foothold of in the valley. But he was still determined to fuck with him whenever he could. “Will it also get you to stop talking?” he asked.

John took a deep breath, prepared to taunt and argue, but halfway through it looked like the wind got sucked out of him. “I — what?”

Rook crossed his arms, tilted his chin, held it high. “If I agree to go with you, will you shut the fuck up and leave everyone here alone? ‘Cause, I’m going to level with you, all I really want is some sleep, a shower, and some actual food.” 

Mary May cast him a wary glance. “Rook, what the hell are you—”

John didn’t let her finish her thought. He turned red and began sputtering angrily. “You — You are in _no place_ to be negotiating here, Deputy.”

“I ain’t fightin’ you, John,” Rook sighed, stepping out from behind the bar. All weapons were on him now. He stopped a few paces short of where John stood. “I understand how that could be a little confusing for you, but I really don’t got the energy for it right now. I’ll go with you, you leave these fine folks here alone, and if you’re feeling generous, you let me rest a few hours so we can pick up our little game of cat and mouse. How’s that sound?”

John’s mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water, turning to the Peggies he brought with them, as if they could provide any aid or insight into how Rook was acting. His face twisted in confused rage, eyes so blue surrounded by a quickly flushing face. The corners of Rook’s mouth twitched into a slight grin at the scene. Pigtails pulled. Reaction elicited. John’s eyes fell back on him, and when he saw Rook’s smug face, his nostrils flared as he took a sudden, sharp inhale of breath. “Cuff him,” he said sharply.

The Peggies moved with an alarming speed. Two of the larger men rushed at Rook, wrenching his arms behind him and fastening his own handcuffs tightly to his wrists. The cold metal bit into his skin, threatening to draw blood. One of them reached into his pocket and took the key. They then pushed the barrel of their gun to the small of his back, forcing him to move forward. He dared a glance back at Mary May at the bar, whose eyes were wide with fear.

“Rook,” she said, a warning to cover her panic. “You better know what you’re doin’.”

“Don’t you worry about me, Miss Fairgrave,” Rook answered. A few days ago, this situation would have set his heart racing, but right now, he was completely calm. His tone level, even, like he was exactly where he wanted to be. His eyes fell to John, waiting for him by the door. “You worry about the town. They need you more than I do.”

John scowled and motioned with his hand. The Peggie behind Rook prodded him roughly with the gun, shoving him towards and out the door. He was forced from the Spread Eagle and into the streets. A few citizens of Falls End had gathered along the sidewalks, nervously watching and whispering to each other. A handful let out shocked gasps when Rook came out, and the tension was palpable. He nodded his head at them, hoping between that and the fact that he wasn’t distress — aside from the obvious — they wouldn’t do anything brash or stupid. The last thing he needed was to get caught in the middle of a shootout wearing handcuffs. 

John filed out behind him, surrounded by his bodyguards, and he ordered them to the trucks parked along the road. “The Deputy rides with me,” he barked.

Rook was manhandled into the backseat of one of the trucks. He was briefly uncuffed to secure his hands to the grab handle overhead. It wasn’t comfortable, but after what he’d been through the past few days, it wasn’t anything he couldn’t endure. A Peggie slid into the seat beside him, and then after him, John climbed in. Another two crawled into the driver and passenger seats. 

“Where to, John?” the driver asked.

“The ranch,” John snapped. “It’s getting late. I don’t want to drive through the night to get to the bunker.”

The truck roared to life, and the Peggies pulled out of Falls End, making their way through the lonely valley roads. John continued to issue commands over the radio, but Rook didn’t pay much attention. The vibrations from the vehicle and the low hum of its engine was enough to soothe his exhaustion riddled mind and body. He leaned his head against the window, watching the fields roll by. His world began to dim. Whether it was simply the sun setting or his eyes drooping shut, he wasn’t sure, but soon enough, he found himself slipping into a deep, well-needed sleep.

* * *

Rook’s memory of what happened after leaving Fall’s End was spotty at best. He remembered it being dark when they arrived at John’s ranch. He vaguely recalled being dragged out of the cab and blasted with cold water, but everything else was an exhaustion fogged blur. All he really knew when he finally came to, was that it was nighttime and that he was handcuffed to the headboard of a surprisingly soft bed. 

_How considerate,_ was his waking thought, and it left him reeling because he never thought he’d ever use that word to describe John Seed. 

Groggily, he looked around, giving the chain a few experimental tugs. Yup, definitely handcuffed. It was only one hand, though, which surprised him. Granted, it was his dominant hand, the one they most definitely _should_ have left cuffed, but he thought that given the trouble the Peggies went through to catch him, he’d be more securely bound. Hell, he was convinced he was going to wake up in some sort of prison cell in John’s basement. Maybe some sort of sex dungeon. John seemed the type. 

Instead, it was a nice, well-kept room with dark, hardwood floors and mahogany furniture. Beams of silver moonlight streamed through the window, tinging everything with a washed out, pale hue. The mattress was softer than anything he had ever had the pleasure of sleeping on. If he were in any more of a daze, Rook might have thought he was caught somewhere in the bliss. Everything was too soft, too light. He felt too good where he was, despite the bite of metal at his wrist. 

But this wasn’t the bliss. No, this is just what it felt like to be relatively well rested. It had been so long since he had a decent night’s sleep; he had forgotten how good it was. No dull, throbbing ache at his temples or behind his eyes. No fighting his protesting muscles and their bone deep exhaustion. No feeling like he was about to collapse at any given moment. And all it took was passing out after three days of not eating or sleeping and getting kidnapped. Who knew being a wild goose could be so rewarding?

He lay still for a long moment, marveling at how soft and plush the pillows were. He knew nothing about textiles or weaving, but according to everything they say on tv, the higher the thread count, the nicer the sheets, and the higher the price. And these sheets were _very_ nice. 

It seemed decidedly against a lot of what Joseph told his followers to do. Rook wondered if Joseph knew. He wondered if Joseph cared. Cult leaders rarely genuinely practised what they preached. As far as Rook was aware, the Father and all of his Heralds slept on silky and fluffy clouds. Well… except for maybe Jacob. If that man slept at all, it was probably on a bed of pine needles with a blanket of dead leaves. 

It took a great deal of effort to will himself upright. He shimmied himself up the slippery sheets into a sitting position, relieving the strain in his cuffed arm. A half-baked plan was beginning to take shape in his head. Yank himself free. Subdue whatever Peggies come to investigate the noise he was going to make. Escape from right under John’s nose. Again.

It was about as well formed as most of his plans. The details he could iron out in the moment. He just needed to act, and once he started acting, he needed to do it fast. As much as he’d take smug satisfaction in bleeding all over and ruining John’s house, he really didn’t want to get shot. The wound in his leg from one of Jacob’s bliss arrows still ached, and he really didn’t need a matching gift on his other thigh. 

He rolled out of his pocket of warmth as quietly as he could, his bare feet landing softly on the hardwood floor. Addendum to plan: find shoes at some point. Didn’t have to be his own. 

He glanced around, hoping that the Peggies might have been dumb enough to leave something that could be utilized as a weapon within his reach. They didn’t, damn them. Though, he supposed it really didn’t matter. He was big and, more importantly, knew how to throw his and his opponents’ weight around efficiently. He’d taken down more than his fair share of Peggies with his bare hands. Looked like this was going to be another one of those times. 

Crouching on the side of the bed, he took in a few deep breaths, steeling himself for the violence about to ensue. With all the force he could muster, he pulled at the headboard. A loud _thud_ resounded around the room as the headboard rebounded and smashed against the wall. Rook hissed in pain. Metal bit into his already raw wrist, and his arm twinged at nearly being ripped from its socket. 

He paused, listening intently. There was no way nobody heard that. A heartbeat. Then two. Three. No signs of any Peggies coming to check on him. 

Changing his angle, he tried again.

On the third try, someone knocked their fist against the bedroom door. Three solid, irritated _thumps_ that communicated a warning and a threat: “Do that again, and I will come in and make you stop.” 

Which meant Rook only had one more shot at freeing himself. Blood trickled down his wrist now, and his arm screamed in agony, but he swore that he saw a crack in the wood. One more solid pull should set him free. Depending on how it broke, he might have a makeshift bludgeoning tool as a weapon too. He widened his stance and made one last pull, praying to anything that would listen that this would be enough. 

The sharp _crack_ made by splitting wood was deafening. Rook stumbled back clumsily, falling on his ass just as a very pissed off Peggie came storming through the door. He was grumbling something about “the filthy sinner,” and “why did John set him up in a nice room?” When he realized that Rook wasn’t in the bed, like he was supposed to be, and instead he was on the floor, he paused. 

Using the moment of confusion to his advantage, Rook scrambled forward and thrust his cuffed arm out, swinging his chunk of headboard at the back of the Peggie’s knees. He made contact, sending the Peggie pitching forward onto the bed. With a speed that Rook can only attribute to adrenaline, he was on the Peggie, pinning him down. “Sorry man,” he said, looping his arm around the other man’s neck, pulling him into a headlock and squeezing. 

The Peggie’s arms flailed out, reaching back, trying to claw at Rook’s face, his arms, anything he could find purchase on. But Rook pressed down, forcing as much of his two-hundred-and-fifty pounds of muscle onto the Peggie’s back. He pushed the air from the Peggie’s lungs, prevented him from sucking in any to replace it, and eventually, the Peggie went limp beneath him. 

Blood pounded in Rook’s ears, a thundering sound only pierced by his ragged breathing. He checked to Peggie’s pulse. Faint, but still there. He fished through the man’s pockets for the key and made a relieved sound when he found it. The chunk of headboard fell to the ground with a soft _thunk_ when he unlocked his cuffs. 

Rubbing his tender wrist, he worked his jaw, the wheels in his head turning. What to do with the Peggie? Stuff him in the wardrobe? No, he’d make too much noise when he woke up. Someone would come to investigate. But he couldn’t just leave him here either. His gaze fell to the nice silk sheets, and he shrugged. 

It was better than nothing. 

He got to work tearing the fabric into strips. The ripping sound was nearly as loud and violent as the sound the headboard made. The slipperiness made it difficult to get a solid hold of, and Rook had no idea how damn strong silk was. He had to take the knife strapped at the Peggie’s thigh to help him hack though the fibers. It wasn’t pretty, by any means, but it did the job well enough. He managed to cut the sheet into long pieces, which he promptly used to secure the Peggie to the bed. He made sure to bind both hands. Almost as an afterthought, he stuffed a ball of fabric in the man’s mouth and secured it in place with one of the remaining strips. Didn’t want his captive to do the same thing he did, and he especially didn’t want him calling for help. 

He just hoped that the binds were tight enough that the man wouldn’t just slip right out.

A quick pat down and Rook divested the Peggie of his remaining weapons. He hid them in various places around the room. Rifle under the bed. Handgun on top of the wardrobe. The knife he kept for himself. Stealth was never his forte, but given the close quarters he was dealing with, he’d rather not get caught in a firefight. Even if he did, he was confident enough in his abilities to rend a gun from an attacker’s hands. He then divested the Peggie of his shoes. They were a little small; his feet jammed and pinched uncomfortably at the toes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

Right. 

Now for the hard part. 

The fastest escape would be through the window. One look through the glass told him he was on the second floor in a part of the ranch that didn’t have access to the wrap-around balcony. He’d have to climb down if he went that way. Tingling pain shot through his bad leg at the thought, and he grimaced. If he slipped and fell, he’d be done. He’d get nowhere fast with a broken leg. 

Long way out it was. 

The bedroom door was still ajar from when his guard stormed in. He nudged it open slowly and peered down the hall. Empty. Lamplight flickered dimly, painting long, sinister shadows along the walls. It was eerily silent. No heavy footfalls of patrols, no banter between Peggies, not even a radio playing quietly. Just the faint creaking of the place settling and the distant roar of a fire coming from downstairs. 

Where the hell was everyone? 

Rook was almost insulted that he wasn’t more heavily guarded. He’d done his best to be a major thorn in John’s side. He thought he’d find at least _someone_ patrolling. But no, the house was nearly dead silent. A pin could drop and his fight-or-flight instincts would kick into full gear. 

He crept out of the bedroom and into the hall. He pressed himself against the wall, sticking to the shadows. He tried to keep his weight even as he walked, mindful of every creak, squeak, and groan of the floorboards underfoot. Each breath was long and slow, drawn out to make as little noise as possible. 

The stairs posed an interesting challenge. There wasn’t a solid wall for him to hide behind as he made his way down. Just a railing that left him almost entirely exposed. He had listened for more patrolling Peggies, but heard no sounds of footsteps as he strained his ears. Slowly, he crept down the stairs, pausing halfway down when he heard a quiet voice carry through the downstairs. 

It was soft. Gentle. Low and melodic in a way that reminded Rook of a lullaby. Were it not for the tinny distortion of an answering machine, it would have been soothing. He might not have liked Joseph Seed, but even Rook had to admit that the man had a way with words. Each one deliberately chosen, each one carefully considered to rouse the emotions he wanted from his followers. He was a master manipulator and on a certain level, Rook respected that, albeit begrudgingly. 

But even the syrupy sweet tenderness of brotherly concern couldn’t mask the edge to Joseph’s words. Rook wasn’t personally familiar with what it was like to face an older sibling’s disappointment, but as the eldest of two, he knew how to exploit certain insecurities. And listening to Joseph speak, it was painfully clear what John’s were.

“— _These actions will only feed the sin_ _inside_ _you. It will grow stronger. It will convince you to do wicked things.”_

Sin. 

Rook wasn’t sure how much of the violent fixation came from the trauma John experienced as a child or Joseph manipulating it, turning John into what he needed. Rook was sympathetic, to a certain extent. The kind of moral self-righteousness that John’s parents beat into him was the same that forced Rook to leave his home in Carthage, Tennessee. Parents, preachers, school teachers, all had lectured ad nauseam to him about sin and how he was damned to hell just for being who he was. _Lustful_ , they spat at him. _Filthy creature,_ they called him as he was struck with his father’s belt or some other makeshift switch. 

They beat him until he started to beat others, trading one sin for another. Because for some reason, his parents preferred bloody fists, black eyes, and busted lips over him kissing and loving another boy. 

Rook, much like John, knew what it was to have others try to beat the sin out of him. The difference was that John broke while Rook survived and escaped it. John carried the abuse with him with every step, while Rook had managed to lick his wounds and move on. 

Or had he? 

Maybe he just traded rebelling against one group of religious zealots for another.

_“—I have seen your death in a vision. You are destined to be slayed by your own sin. It will come back around in a new form. It’s only a matter of when. I’ve seen you die young. I’ve seen you die old. The difference between the two outcomes is how much love you let into your heart. I pray that you hear these words before it’s too late. I want to see you become an old man in the paradise we prepared for. I love you, brother. I love you.”_

Rook felt a twinge in his heart; a dreadful aching feeling. One of loss and longing, of desire and denial, and he couldn’t ignore the pangs of fury that passed through him. It was absurd. He knew it was absurd, knew that even if Joseph meant what he said, he was still weaponizing love to leverage John into doing his bidding. Dangling that carrot while hiding the stick behind his back. Why was he so upset about that? It wasn’t as if that was anything new. 

He sneaked further down the stairs and was now at the base, giving him a near full view of the main floor. John’s figure was silhouetted by the glow of a strongly burning fire in the fireplace. He stood at a long dining table, leaning his weight on his palms. His back was turned, but a nearly imperceptible twitch of his head and a tensing of his shoulders told Rook that he knew he was there. 

Silence hung heavy between them, weighing the air down oppressively. Rook didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know how to react to this odd crack in John’s armor. Didn’t know how John would react to being found like this. 

John sighed, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. Almost resigned. “Whatever you’re going to do, Deputy, do it now.” He reached for something on the table, brought it up, and tossed his head back in a quick motion. When he set it down, Rook could hear the faint _clinking_ of ice cubes knocking against each other, and the gentle sloshing of liquid being poured into a glass. 

Rook remained silent and still, unsure of how to proceed. After a few moments, a low, frustrated growl came from John’s throat and he turned to face him. The fire cast his face in an orange glow, shadows accentuating the sharp edges of his nose and jaw. In his hands, he cradled a glass of either whiskey or bourbon close to his chest. His tired eyes narrowed when they fell on Rook, but there was no hiding the fact that they were also wet and glistening with tears. “Well, _Dep-u-_ _ty_?” he asked, gesturing with his glass. His mouth twisted around the words, sharpening each syllable into a fine point. An unspoken dare for Rook to do something. To make him hurt. To make him bleed. To make him dead. 

This was his chance. He could end John’s reign of terror right here, right now. He wouldn’t have to worry about the Valley anymore and he’d have a safe place to send survivors. He’d have more time to focus on going after the other Seeds. Killing John was the smart thing to do. Hell, this was what Rook _wanted,_ the violence his fingers had been twitching ever since he left Jacob’s red room.

But he couldn’t. 

That raging fire of wrath he had been kindling so lovingly since this all began had mysteriously died down. The coals had burned themselves to ash and had gone cold. A different warmth filled his chest. It didn’t burn so much as it smoldered. A low, simmering heat. He stood up straight and took a few cautious steps towards John, closing the distance between them.

“Yes,” John breathed, almost reverent. He lifted his chin up to meet Rook’s gaze and tilted his head to expose the pale column of his throat. _Do it,_ he challenged. _Strangle me. I know you want to. You know I want you to._

Rook just took the glass from John. He gently peeled away the other man’s fingers and set it down carefully on the table. Then he placed his hand lightly on John’s bicep, a feather of a touch. 

The wicked grin John had been wearing faltered. His hand curled into a fist and he clutched it to his chest. Fear and uncertainty flashed across his face. Breath hitching, he asked, “What are you doing?” 

Rook gingerly ran his fingers up John’s arm, watching carefully for any kind of reluctance or hesitation. But John leaned into the touch, almost imperceptibly, and when Rook cradled his cheek with a massive, warm hand, he let out a soft whine. 

Rook leaned in until he could feel the wet heat of John’s breath on his face. “Tempering my sin,” he murmured. 

John’s eyes darted from Rook’s face to the angry red lines carved into his chest. He uncurled his fist and ran his fingertips over the raised, scarred skin. It didn’t hurt Rook when he did that, and he could only assume that someone had cleaned and tended to them while he was out. John traced each letter slowly, in a manner that Rook could only describe as enraptured. 

“ _Patientias_ _…”_ John whispered. The word didn’t mean anything to Rook — Latin was never his strongest subject — but it obviously meant something to John. He lifted his gaze to stare back at Rook and nodded slowly in understanding. A slight smile ghosted his lips. “I see,” he said. His nodding grew adamant. “I see,” he repeated, more firmly. 

Rook wasn’t sure if he did, but he wasn’t about to rob John of enlightenment. He was acting surprisingly docile. Given how quickly John’s moods could turn, Rook didn’t want to do or say anything that would result in a knife buried in his chest or a bullet in his head.

John stared up at him, mouth parted and those watery blue eyes blinking away tears before they could spill. They flicked briefly to Rook’s mouth before fixing him with a pleading look. And, fuck, how could Rook say anything but _yes_ to a face like that.

He pressed forward, and John arched up to meet him. He expected hunger, violence. Greed, wrath, and lust, because John is nothing if not a man of extremes. Instead, it was far more hesitant than Rook had anticipated. He was suddenly very aware of how chapped and dry his lips were when they came into contact with John’s. It was soft, gentle, lips barely grazing in what could hardly be called a kiss. 

Tentatively, Rook pushed a little harder, tangling his fingers into the short, silky strands of John’s hair and holding him in place. John hummed contentedly in the back of his throat and Rook felt long eyelashes tickle his cheek as John’s eyes fluttered shut. He couldn’t help but smile against John’s lips, and opened willingly when the other man’s tongue snuck out, asking for permission inside his mouth.

John’s hands slid up from Rook’s chest and he wrapped his arms around his neck, hugging him close. He was practically dwarfed by Rook, but they slotted together so perfectly. John’s thin, lean frame fit beautifully between Rook’s strong arms and broad chest. It was so warm, so comfortable, and John tasted like bourbon and chocolate; sweet and smokey. He wanted to stay there forever, licking at his mouth, devouring each little sound he managed to coax out.

And then that spark of rage reemerged with a flash. The dark part of Rook, the part he was becoming frighteningly familiar with in recent days, was itching to end this. Bend John over the table, fuck him senseless, and blow his brains out all over his nice Persian carpets. The violence sang in his blood, burning through his body. It would be so easy to just give in and snap his neck then and there.

_Wrath. Wrath. Wrath._

But he refused to keep proving John right. He couldn’t say if he’d ever be able to forgive him for all the pain and suffering he caused. He wasn’t sure if it was his place to forgive something like that. That was between him and God. But forgiveness wasn’t necessarily a prerequisite for mercy. He didn’t have to forgive John in order to exercise mercy. He just had to do what he said he was doing. Temper his sin. Temper his wrath.

He pulled away, flushed, and he barely managed to gasp John’s name before he was dragged in for another kiss. This one was hungrier, more demanding, like John was looking for something buried deep inside Rook’s mouth. They had to break apart again for air eventually, but they took their sweet time getting there. Lips sliding together, coming apart red and swollen, and more kissable than before. 

Their breath mingled in the space between them as they caught their breath. It was hot and heavy and Rook wanted nothing more than to keep his mouth on John’s. But he had to be sure this was what they both wanted. “John,” he repeated.

“Yes,” John breathed, cutting him off. He must have tasted the question on Rook’s tongue. 

But _Yes_ meant little coming from him. For everything he told Rook he had said _“yes”_ to in life, it wasn’t exactly explicit consent. It just meant that he accepted whatever was going to happen, good or bad, was what he deserved. Even if it wasn’t. Rook frowned, his hand finding John’s cheek once again and wiping away a tear that had escaped from the corner of his eyes. 

John averted his gaze, almost bashfully. A shuddering breath escaped through his nose as he gathered up the courage to look at Rook once again. A pained expression crossed his face, as if it were physically hurting him to speak. “Please, Deputy,” he said, his voice raw, needy, broken. “Please, Rook.”

Rook stared at him for a long moment, considered the plea and its sincerity. John was practically trembling in his arms, and finally, he nodded. Rook pressed a kiss to his forehead, his lips, his neck, and began trailing his way downwards. Muscles jumped and twitched under his fingertips, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he was the first person to touch John without the intent to harm or otherwise take something from him.

Soft whines escaped John’s lips and his body turned to putty, soft and pliant in Rook’s hands. When Rook sank to his knees on the plush carpet in front of John, he couldn’t bite back the low moan. As if there was no better sight in the world than Rook, supplicant at his feet. 

Rook ran his hands over John’s thighs and leaned in to mouth wetly at the bulge tenting his jeans. Thin fingers tangled in his hair, holding him still, and they both breathed out a contented sigh. Rook looked up at John from beneath his lashes, waiting for a sign to continue. He didn’t have to wait long. John tugged him forward, pressing his face up against his erection, with a growl. “Come _on.”_

Rook chuckled, sliding his hands from John’s thighs to undo his belt buckle. Were circumstances different, he would have dragged this out longer. Would have teased John until he was a trembling mess before giving him what he needed. Make the mercy of release all the sweeter. But unfortunately he didn’t have time for that. A Peggie could walk in on them at any moment, and while he was fairly sure he’d survive the situation, he was pretty sure the sheer embarrassment of being caught would kill him afterwards. 

He pulled John’s pants and underwear down in one swift movement, and his cock sprang free, bobbing proudly before him. He wasted no time leaning in, kissing and licking his way down John’s length before taking him into his mouth. It was hot and heavy on his tongue, a comfortable weight that he laved at as he bobbed his head. John’s grip on his hair tightened, guiding his pace, showing him exactly what he wanted.

What the fuck was he doing?

_Giving John Seed head,_ his brain helpfully replied, and fuck, yeah, that was exactly what he was doing, wasn’t it? He was giving the same man who tortured his friends and carved letters into his chest a goddamned blowjob. 

And for what reason? Because he felt sorry for John? Because he caught him in a moment of vulnerability and was struck by sympathy? Because for a brief moment, John Seed the monster was John Seed the man?

And maybe that is what it was: proof that there was something human about him after all.

The Seeds had something undeniably otherworldly about them. Faith was more spirit than woman; an ethereal being who existed between drug fueled dreams and the waking world. Jacob was a beast in every sense of the word. Big, mean, and obsessed with survival and proving his strength. And Joseph, a man aptly titled “The Father,” and even Rook couldn’t deny it was fitting. He watched over his flock, omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent. Even Rook struggled to conceive of him being just as mortal as everyone else.

But John? John was human. Agonizingly so. All raw edges and volatile emotions, and a burning need to be wanted and loved by others.

And Rook, for all his rage and wrath, wanted to love and be loved just the same. He had the — frankly absurd — fleeting thought that if things were different, he and John would have a lot in common. A lot to talk about. A lot to build a potential relationship out of. But things were what they were. John was a violent cult leader, and Rook was an officer of the law. When whatever they were doing was over, he was going to have to go back to trying to arrest him and his siblings.

Rook was pulled from his thoughts when he felt John’s hips begin to stutter. The rhythm of his thrusts faltered, and between John’s groaning, he could hear him muttering something under his breath. “…But if you love those who love you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners love those who love them.And if you do good to those who do good to you, what credit is that to you? For even sinners do the same…”

The words tickled the back of Rook’s brain. They were familiar in the same way a ruler to his knuckles was. The sharp pain of hypocrisy from pastors and school teachers cutting through the hazy memories from his childhood. But it sounded different coming from John. Sounded like it meant something.

John cut himself off with a heady moan as he spilled down Rook’s throat. A litany of “ _Yes, yes, yes,”_ replaced it soon after, when Rook swallowed around him. Gingerly, he pulled out of Rook’s mouth, oversensitive and sucking in shuddering breaths. A hand left Rook’s hair to come around and rest on his cheek. His thumb swiped over Rook’s swollen lips, wiping away beads of his seed. He sighed happily when Rook’s tongue darted out to lick and suck, wet heat twining around his finger. 

His other hand came around to cup Rook’s jaw, and he pulled him up onto his feet once again. He then proceeded to go boneless, slumping into Rook’s strong arms and using him as a support. Lazily, he pulled a handkerchief out of a back pocket, wiping himself and his jeans down before tucking himself away. He was practically purring, a pleased rumble vibrating through his chest as he rested his head against Rook’s broad chest.

Then his hands started to wander, and Rook hadn’t realized just how hard he was himself. His own erection was straining painfully in his pants, and his hips twitched when John’s hands started travelling downwards. “You’re still hard,” John murmured, nipping and suckling at Rook’s throat. 

It was Rook’s turn to gasp when John ground his palm onto his crotch, sending jolts of pleasure up his spine. He bit his lip and whined when he relented, unbuckling his belt and burying his hand down Rook’s pants. John’s fingers were nimble and soft, so unlike his own rough and calloused ones. It was clear that John has done this before. He knew how to play Rook’s body like an instrument, bringing him to and from the edge more times than his pleasure addled mind can count. 

He tossed his head back with a choked groan when he came all over John’s fingers, and, with smug satisfaction, onto the carpet. John tsked lightly in mild disgust, but folded his handkerchief and wiped Rook off with a clean section of silk. 

Rook put himself away and leaned back against the table. He needed a moment for his knees to stop feeling like jelly. John sidled up beside him, his shoulder pressed against Rook’s side. There was a distant look in his eyes as he drew his lower lip in between his teeth. Silence passed between the two of them, but this time it wasn’t oppressive. Just anxious. Hesitant towards what would happen next. 

“So,” Rook said eventually, his voice rough and graveled from taking John so far down his throat. “What now?”

John sighed and crossed his arms, a thoughtful look falling over his face. “You escaped through the woods,” he said simply. Rook shot him a confused look. “You knocked out your guard,” he continued, “Something I assume is true. Then you managed to sneak past me and into the woods. We didn’t realize you were gone until it was too late.”

Rook blinked. After the hassle of threatening Falls End to find him, John was just going to let him go? “Why?”

John turned around and dragged the glass of bourbon across the table towards him. “Because Deputy,” he said, taking a sip. “Our little game of cat and mouse isn’t over yet.” He glanced at Rook out of the corner of his eye. “Go save your gaggle of sinners. You will come back to me, one way or another.”

The way John’s voice lowered sent a shiver down Rook’s spine. He didn’t know what to make of that. The difference between a promise and a threat was wire-thin with John. It was possible they were one and the same. 

A cold sense of dread settled in Rook’s stomach, but one look at John told him that he felt it too. Both were keenly aware of the roles they had adopted, and neither were inclined to give them up. Rook had sworn to protect and serve the people of Hope County. John had sworn to do the same for his brother and the Project.

Rook wanted to say something. He tried to find the words to sway John, to convince him that Joseph was manipulating him the same way he manipulated everyone else. But it wasn’t quite that easy. Instead, he just sighed and pushed himself away from the table. He angled himself slightly to face John, but the other man refused to look at him. His lips twitched, briefly forming a sad smile, and he patted John gently on the shoulder. “Take care,” he said.

And then he was gone, creeping out of the ranch, and stalking through the underbrush until he came across an abandoned ATV a few miles away. He could still see the faint glow of floodlights in the distance above the treeline, but he knew he was far enough away that no one would take notice to him jumpstarting the vehicle. 

He weaved his way through the trees until he made it onto a proper road, speeding his way towards Falls End. The sun was just beginning to rise by the time he rolled into town, sweaty, exhausted, and covered in dirt. He was greeted like a goddamn hero when he strode into the Spread Eagle. A bottle of lukewarm beer immediately found its way into his hand and everyone demanded to hear the stories of yet another amazing escape. 

No one commented on the bruises on his neck.

He didn’t tell them the truth.


End file.
